


Celebrate anywhere you like

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Birthday Sex, Car Sex, Hand Jobs, In Public, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9305240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: 9 October, 1964In the midst of the mad dash between trains and rooms and cars and rooms and cheese sandwiches, John reminds Paul of a promise he made as to what kind of treatment John might rightly expect come his next birthday.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardust_made](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Mad, Madder, Maddest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247452) by [Canon_Is_Relative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative). 



> This is a stand-alone sequel to Mad, Madder, Maddest.
> 
> Written ages ago for my dearest stardust_made.

9 October, 1964

 

"I’ve been a good lad, Macca, I have," John said, right into his ear and almost too low to be heard under the rumble of the road, but still Paul looked up, looked around, face going hot.

"No one’s looking, Paul," John was laughing at him, hot breath on his face. Ringo was snoring in the seat ahead of them and beside him George was slumped against the window with his coat over his head. In the front of the van Mal and Brian were talking quietly. Brian lit a cigarette and passed it to Mal, and in the flare of the match Paul could see Brian’s face reflected clearly in the windscreen.

"Come on, Paul. Come on, you said you would, you said on my birthday—"

"You’re mad," Paul finally turned to him, shaking his head.

John’s face was shadowed but his teeth gleamed. "That’s not exactly news, son. Come on, come on."

"Shh!" Paul hissed, glanced forward again. He could make out Brian’s face in profile, looking over at Mal, smiling. "Eppy’s—"

John barked a laugh, and Brian looked back at them. John lifted a hand and waggled his fingers in a teasing wave. Once Brian smiled and shook his head and was facing forward again, John dropped his hand and grabbed Paul’s. John had shrugged out of his jacket when they got in the van and draped it over his knees. Now he pulled Paul’s hand under it, pressed Paul’s palm between his legs.

\---

John had been unbearable on the drive up from London, earlier. Six hours on the road because of bleeding traffic delays and once they got to Bradford the fucking cops supposed to keep them from getting mobbed were holding them up to ask for autographs. Six hours of John poking him in the back of the neck, tugging his hair, singing off-key into his ear from the seat behind him, until Paul made Ringo swap seats with him to get out of John’s reach. John had smacked George and made him swap too and gone back to tormenting Paul.

Later, as they were leaving the Gaumont after the second show, John had stopped short in the courtyard doorway making Paul run into him, grabbing at his shoulders to steady himself.

"No. I’m not getting back into that bleeding van, I’m not spending another minute in that fucking thing."

"Come on," Paul said, poking him between the shoulders, trying to prod him towards the van ahead and away from the screams he could still hear down the corridors behind. "We’ve got to press on to Leicester tonight, you know that."

"The fuck is in Leicester," John turned to glare at him, batting his hands away, "that’s any better than the fuck-all that’s here in Bradford?"

"Your share of 850 quid," Paul told him, pushing at his shoulder. "Come on."

"S’me bleedin’ birthday, Paul," John said, something almost pitiful in his voice, his eyes fixed on Paul’s. "Can’t very well celebrate in the back of a van, can we?"

Paul lifted his chin. "Celebrated worse places, haven’t we? Can celebrate anywhere you like."

"Boys?" Brian was watching them, George and Ringo already in the van.

"Can we, Paulie?" John’s eyes dropped to Paul’s mouth and he rubbed his thumb beneath his own bottom lip. "Can we?"

 "Come ‘ead," Paul said, nudging at him, dragging him along. "Come _on_ , they’re waiting."

"Eh!" John said, smacking George upside the head for the second time that day. "Move your skinny arse, I’m sitting in back."

"Plenty of room," George said, sliding over on the bench seat.

John made to hit him again and George batted his hand away, grumbling, and scrambled over the back of the seat ahead to sit next to Ringo. John pulled Paul in beside him, and despite that it was wintery cold inside and out John shrugged out of his jacket as Brian closed the doors.

\---

"Come on, Paul," John breathed, pressed Paul’s hand between his legs, rolling his head against the back of his seat, eyes falling half closed.

Paul froze, darted his eyes up and around, and then unfurled his fingers against John, sucking in a quick breath when they met only soft cotton over John’s hard prick. The fucker had got his flies open and trousers down all beneath his coat without Paul being the wiser.

"See, Paulie," John was slumped down in his seat and looking up at him, all slack smile and hooded eyes. "Told you I’m a good lad."

"You’re a lunatic is what you are," Paul hissed, sliding down low in his own seat and squeezing John, rubbing him through his shorts.

"Oh, yeah," John grunted, hitched in a breath, turned and pressed his forehead against Paul’s as he pressed himself up into Paul’s hand. "Lunatic idea, this, worst I’ve ever, I’ve ever had."

"Fuck you." Paul pushed aside John’s shorts, getting his hand on naked flesh.

"Oh, yeah, all right, could do that too," John was panting into his ear. "That’s if you don’t think Eppy will mind, that is."

John snaked his hand under his coat, urging Paul on when he stalled.

"’Oh John, no, we can’t’," John was simpering into his ear, mocking Paul even as he was rubbing up against his hand, "’we can’t, Eppy’s in the next room. I couldn’t possibly, Eppy’s only two counties over!’ Oh fuck, yeah, yeah, Paul, go on, go on."

"Could fucking murder you, I really could," Paul shifted in his seat, leaning into John and getting a better grip on him, the both of them breathing hard each nearly into the other’s mouth.

"Handy, that would be, borned and dead on the same day—"

"Shut up," Paul growled.

John did – nearly. At the end he let out a groan to wake the dead and kicked his leg forward into Ringo’s seat.

"Th’fuh…" Ringo muttered, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

"Everything all right?" Brian asked from the front seat, turning around but not casting his eyes all the way to the back.

"The hell are you…" George sat up, sniffed, turned to glare back at John.

"M’having a fucking birthday wank," John drawled, face tipped up to the roof, his own hand moving all lazy-like under his jacket. Cracking an eye open, he smirked. "I’m stuck in a fucking van with the lot of you, what’d you expect?"

"Bridget Bardot," Paul said from where he’d pressed himself against the opposite door from John.

George snorted. "Try Cilla Black!"

"You little pervert," John shot back, then gave him a licentious wink. "Cilla's just a friend."

"Try Winston Churchill," Paul said, quieter.

John was squirming under his jacket, getting his trousers back into order. He glanced up, and the headlamps of a passing car lit up his face, his eyes fixed on Paul’s. "That’s Winston Lennon to you."

"It’s only another hour," Brian said. "If anyone needs to stop sooner than that, please tell me."

"Shall I tell him that I need to stop so you can get your mouth on me," John leaned over to say in Paul’s ear.

"I just—" Paul gaped at him, then narrowed his eyes, shutting his mouth.

 "You did just, yeah, and very nice it was, ta. But you see it’s me birthday."

"And what’s that supposed to mean?"

"Well it means I’m not exactly too old to celebrate, am I?"

"I’m meant to be sharing with Ringo tonight."

"Well, share and share alike, I always say. But also I say, tell him to fuck off cos you’ve got some very important Lennon-McCartney business to handle."

" _Hand_ -le, is it?" Paul asked with emphasis.

John grinned. "’Mouth-le’ isn’t exactly a word in Her Majesty’s dictionary, is it?"

"Haven’t checked the latest edition, couldn’t say."

"Never mind checking anything," John said, adjusting his glasses and looking at Paul from across the seat. "If a Beat-le says it, it’s true."

"Right," Paul agreed, fiddling with his shirt cuffs. His hands smelled of John, the air around him smelled of John, he was aching and miserable and longing to get John or a guitar or his own cock in his hands.

"Right," John echoed, winking at him. Then he hollered, "How much longer?"

 


End file.
